Amour, Noël
by laX2
Summary: Lincoln/Kruger/Reedus AU. The act of not loving someone is really just denial. A holiday story about how we are bonded by heartache, mortality, friendship and love. [Mark POV]


**Hello reader! I haven't written or posted a story here in a very long time, but this idea has been in my head for nearly as long, and I really busted my butt to get this up in time for the holiday. To everyone who has clicked on this story out of curiosity and gives it a read I sincerely hope you find it enjoyable, and that you find love, in any and all its forms, this Christmas.**

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 **Amour, Noël**

He can still remember the first time he saw her.

She was like a Raphaelite, sun glinting on her golden hair, the kind of image that conjured all manner of ridiculous poetic verse and melody. The face that launched a thousand ships. An artist's dream.

She was a muse to his soul- no truer one had he ever met.

But she was better than any one that had ever come before her because she was real; not just a picture or a face on a screen, or a mythic woman created only with letters on a page.

And he can see Diego looking at her now, the sunlight in exchange for a smoky, neon hue of a crowded bar, but the effect is the same and he knows just what's going through his mind.

"You mind if I ask her for a drink?"

It's the 'bro-code,' or whatever else you want to call it, at play. Mark follows his line of vision, as if he doesn't already know who has Diego's attention. He's aware of every attention in the room the woman has, and what has her eye in turn, and it's nearly always not him.

The thing about unrequited love is it's toxic. It stays with you, always, and keeps you company- in your bed and on your pillow and burrowing in your sheets when that someone else is in another's arms. But it is also essential because it _does_ keep you company, and it _is_ always with you. The conundrum then is to have an unrequited love or no love at all. The emptiness is often worse. It is a lonely predicament, but lonelier without. An unrequited love is a certain relationship all its own.

Mark doesn't give an answer- no yes, no no- so that if something comes to fruition at this moment he won't place the blame of it on himself. He's already prepared to rig the future with a misunderstanding.

He gives a somewhat shrug, somewhat nod, somewhat unclear gesture, and watches as Diego takes it as an affirmation. He saunters over to Romy, this moment one he'll look back on one day and recall as the beginning- or the end.

Throughout the night, whenever his eyes fall on them they are talking, and then later, when he can't find either of them, but he didn't physically see them leave together, it's an even more obvious indicator of what's happening. Still, he holds out hope, in an ignorance that isn't at all blissful.

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"I haven't done this in so long!" Romy cries as she takes the first, precarious steps onto the ice.

Mark can't help but chuckle at her. It's a busy day and there are many others skating around the two of them, skating better- much better- expertly, even. Young girls looping and spinning and gliding on one foot.

A toddler is learning how to skate nearby, wobbling and unsteady like a newborn deer (not unlike Romy), his cheeks pink with wonder and excitement. His mother is encouraging him, bent over and offering helpful words. She's proudly telling others it is his first time on the ice and Mark angles his lens down and begins to snap photos.

He has a gallery showcase later that month. His work, and that of others, will be displayed for the season. He has some pieces in mind he's been working on, but also left spots and opportunities open for something new.

Whenever he gets the creative freedom to include what he personally wants in this work he refers to his muse.

Romy is his favorite subject to photograph.

With loud shouts and taunts two ruckus young boys are racing one another in the rink and head right for her. They dodge her body at the last moment and go speeding around her, a look of fear on Romy's face, she pausing to cringe and pray she doesn't fall. This time Mark is laughing too hard to take the photograph.

"Stop! This was your idea!"

"You're doing great."

Romy scoffs, taking small tentative steps with her arms out at her side to steady herself. Mark notices that she's happy. Romy is a happy person and always in a friendly mood in general, but there is something different today. A glow, if you will. Something radiating from her that touches him and everyone else in her near vicinity.

"Ginger Rogers made this look so easy!" He had enticed her to come and participate by mentioning a favorite dancer of hers, recalling the scene where she and Astaire impressively danced on roller skates, convincing Romy it would be just like that. Only this time it wasn't the Gershwin's playing overhead, but the throaty coos of an aging rock star. "I'll stick to dancing on land."

After coasting awhile she nears Mark and extends her arm to him. With one hand still holding the extended camera lens wrapped around his neck he doesn't hesitate to use his other to take hers. He helps her forward a few slides before she slips and yelps. She tumbles in to him and he's quick to grasp her body, steadying her on the ice.

He's been around her enough to know the smell of her soap and perfume. It's not overpowering, just the right amount, buts he's never this close to her, and with his nose nearly in her scarf he wonders if it's really a manufactured scent and not entirely from her own pores.

Romy drops the arms that are bracing themselves on him and reaches out to the short wall outlining the rink. She slips out of his embrace to lean up against it and still her feet. They face the rink and its participants, Mark's whole being still rocking and feeling dazed from having her in his arms only a matter of seconds.

When they make a pass in front of him Mark glides out to the mother of the child and offers her his card. He explains who he is and that he's been taking pictures, asking if she'd like to receive professional photographs of the baby's first skate. "Stop by the studio, you can pick them up. No cost."

The mother makes an expression of shock and surprise, moved and offering to give him some amount of payment in exchange for the gift. "No charge, 'tis the season," he tells her with a small arch of his shoulders. "Happy Christmas."

She thanks him profusely, her eyes growing glossy. "Happy Christmas."

When he strides back over to Romy she is smiling at his gesture, still resting up against the wall. He hovers next to her, adjusting the settings on the camera.

"How long do you think it takes to fall in love?"

He looks up from the small screen and at her profile, wondering if he's heard her correctly. "What?"

"You believe in love at first sight...or that we've always had it in us, and one day you just wake up and know?"

His body starts to tingle. Is she speaking about him? God he hopes so. He hopes so with everything in him. To occupy his mind and hands he continues taking pictures of the tottering child. He tries to anchor himself in the moment instead of in the clouds, for the first time noticing a faint scent of pine somewhere near the ice rink.

"I don't know," he ventures to say, safely concealing his eyes within the view finder of the camera. "Maybe a little of both?"

She continues to stare dreamily out at the ice. The toddler is almost getting the hang of balancing on the thin blades, a feat most adults can't even attempt. Mark bends at the knee, getting the child in the right side of the frame and his mothers outstretched arms in the left. He waits until all the other legs glide out of the picture. The camera clicks several times.

He feels his hands shiver, though not from the cold, and the pumping of his heart sends a flush of warm blood through his veins. All he can feel is Romy so close to him. He's just had her in his arms. Could it be the beginning of something, of having her in his arms whenever he wanted?

"What brought this on?"

She doesn't reply but turns to look at him and breaks out in a mischievous, joyful grin, her cheeks the color of rose petals. No answer, just the smile and a sheepish giggle. Mark raises the camera in her direction and snaps.

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Diego is sick. Mark likes to stay in contact with him and check in when he hasn't heard from him in a few days. He could need help in a multitude of ways. When it gets too quiet Mark has this image that comes to him- Diego's body on the ground, alive or not, unable to move, not found or heard from in days.

Diego is also stubborn, and wont readily accept help if not encouraged. Should he need something there's a very good chance he may never ask for it.

"You been quiet. Everything alright?" Mark says into the phone.

"I sorta been busy...with someone." There's a silence after the deep mumble of words and Diego clears his throat. "It's Romy."

Another pause while Mark's jaw tightens. Jolted, as if slapped by the words, he holds the phone away from him. On the other end Diego's grunt turns into a full blown cough that takes a minute to clear. Eventually, when he brings his mouth back to the phone he asks in a gravelly voice, "You there?"

"Yeah, lost you for a minute," Mark lies, putting effort into keeping his voice normal and clearing his own throat. He needs to say something to convince Diego he isn't bothered by the revelation, but all he can see in his mind's eye is the nightmarish tangle of flesh between his two best mates.

 _Busy_.

He thinks of Romy and how dangerous a relationship with Diego is. It's the elephant in the room- one of them- and Mark hems again before starting, his voice suddenly with a stern undertone, "So...have you...told her?"

A beat passes and Diego doesn't speak. The anger begins to bubble in Mark. "You have to tell her!"

"I will."

"When?"

It's not so much that he wants a date and time, just a push that Diego needs to do it sooner than later, if not immediately, and before something happens. Mark also knows he's not privy to an answer like that, that it's _their_ business, he thinks with another internal wince, and either way, no matter how or when Diego says it, Romy will be hurt.

"You know, she's been through a lot. With her husband last year, what he did to her. She doesn't deserve it, and you need to tell her right away." He had been the one letting Romy sleep in his studio when she had to get away from home, saw the bruises on her himself, and did everything he could to support and weather that storm with her. She was just now getting back to some semblance of normalcy and had no idea what she'd gotten herself into this time.

It's silent on the other side of the line and Mark wonders if Romy herself has kept those secrets from Diego. But he doesn't say anything about knowing or not knowing, and just comes to utter a bland, "I know."

Between them it grows quiet and Mark tries to ease the tension and get back to why he called. "You feeling alright?"

Diego goes along with him, thankfully not combative or fancying a fight. It might take too much energy he doesn't have anymore. "I got good days and bad. The bad are gettin' worse."

"I'm always here. Let me know if you need anything. Please."

"I will, man," Diego rumbles, and the two prepare their goodbyes. "Hey," Diego then calls before they hang up, and Mark puts the phone back to his ear. "Thank you."

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Since the phone call Mark has been thinking about nothing but not thinking about Romy. Constantly. And it's all too soon for him to even have a clear head about it. He's considering every option, the rational and extreme, as he does multiple times an hour, all hours of the day, and he has yet to conclude or establish any idea or plan.

He can't be in love with his best mate's girl.

He wonders if it will hurt to see her. He half expects it to. He contemplated not asking her here at all, and is even considering entirely cutting her off from his life just to remain sane, just to be able to go on living. Even alone he still stands there with her, with the memory and idea of her, she present in him at all times. Whenever they are to meet he still gets that jittery feeling, even now when he knows who she belongs to, and what once used to give him some kind of euphoric rush, this constant companion now only aggravates him.

For a moment his world goes dark.

There's something touching his face.

"Devine qui c'est?"

Her breath tickles his ear and once she raises her hands from his eyes she gives Mark a huge grin. Today she's wearing pink, her makeup to match, and her hair is pulled away from her face. And of course now, once she's there smiling at him, embracing him, her scent reaching his nostrils, Mark knows he doesn't ever want to be without her.

Again she is projecting absolute glee.

The matinee is a work assignment. He gets free tickets in a box above the orchestra with good positioning toward the stage. He's set to take production stills for the show, already having captured some during dress rehearsals, now getting shots with a real audience for various catalogs and promotions. He invites Romy, because of course he does.

Together they sit in the box all to themselves. The space is cozy, intimate. He is busy with his cameras and the task at hand, but is intently mindful of her presence close beside him.

"As a child I used to think this is what heaven sounded like," she whispers in the middle of Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Snowflakes, her eyes never leaving the stage, the warm glow of the holiday stage lights glinting on her teeth.

Romy used to be part of a ballet company, a fleeting dream she calls it, and one of which she had little talent, though he's photographed her countless times demonstrating moves that to him seem utterly flawless and as ethereal as her comment.

On certain occasions she regards the scenes on stage with a childlike wonder. From his side he hears gasps, chuckles and murmurs of awe, and she's quick to applaud the acrobatic feats and tricks in the second act. He wonders if she feels a longing for the art she has long since put aside.

Out in the lobby, after the house lights are risen, Romy flips through the playbill, reading ads and reviews for upcoming events. Mark is simply staring, watching the round blue crystalline hue of her eyes blink and flex, and the way her lips twitch when something touches her interest or amusement. He sees and catalogs all her colors- eyes, lips, skin, hair. He can tolerate these idle moments if he can spend them musing over her.

At any other time Mark would have tried to take her to a late lunch or dinner, but she now has someone waiting and her invitations are spoken for.

"Oh!" she exclaims when she sees something she likes coming in the spring, a show all three of them can attend together in the future. She's begun making plans in her head like they've all already agreed. He'd say yes to nearly anything she suggested, but there are now factors at play here she's completely unaware of; situations he may not want to get into, or even be possible, but he lets her talk nonetheless.

"When I go home I'll ask Diego if he wants to go."

 _When I go home._

She continues talking but Mark doesn't hear anything after that. He's not surprised they're living together or sharing spaces, it's just another blow, but he's been getting good at living with them and bracing himself against the assault they have on him, knowing he will be faced with more in the future.

After the phone call Mark had wondered if Romy had been there with Diego, her unclothed body tangled in a mess of sheets behind Diego bent over the phone, he clutching the receiver tighter to his face, shielding her from the conversation.

He's already imagined several times various intimate and even sexual instances between the two- not because of a sick voyeuristic fantasy or that he has any erotic feelings for his male friend, but strictly from the misery and tortuousness of his own consciousness. A punishment of the mind.

When he closed his eyes he saw flashes of it. If his mind wasn't totally occupied he saw it. It could eat you alive, your mind. It had been trying, and he was only surviving by great mental exercise.

What do you see when you turn out the light

I can't tell you but I know it's mine

She's also thinking and talking about the future. Several months, at least, of which none of them know if Diego will see. Damn him for not telling her and letting this continue. If Mark bites his tongue any harder there'll be blood seeping onto his lips.

"Sounds like you two are getting pretty serious." There's a harsh connotation to his voice that comes out involuntarily. It's coated with irritation, they can both hear it, and Mark looks away for a moment before his eyes flicker back to hers. "Be careful with that."

"Why don't you like him?" She huffs loudly with an obvious frustration she's been trying to quell, and her face takes on a whole new look. She's offended by him for those words, something she's never really felt toward him their whole friendship. Her reply, like that of an irked cat, is a warning. This is a hot button issue to them both.

"I love him, he's my best mate," Mark explains, and he doesn't have to play at any convincing. Diego really is his closest friend, and he doesn't think badly of him.

"Then what is it?" she presses. People swirl around them, buttoning their coats and readjusting their scarves to slip out into the afternoon chill.

He groans and his body language tightens. His jaw becomes hard set and he looks away from her. The energy between them is suddenly heated and their sharp words have drawn at least one or two eyes. If she's mad right now then he's mad too. Mad at Diego for keeping this from her, mad at himself for this situation and this crosses with her. "I just..."

"I'm really falling for him."

The words hit his stomach, his chest, his soul, with such a fierce blow everything inside of him is reacting; shattering, drowning, ablaze. There so much of it, and he realizes with the way his body is reacting- it's anger.

He's never felt this toward Romy before.

He asks himself if he's mad at her for loving Diego, like he has any claim over her even though he has known her longer, been the one helping her by all his means through the tough times in her life. He's been the one that _loved_ her, unconditionally, all this time.

But just as he can't eliminate her from his life, he can't feel any kind of hate for her either.

On the marble tile below his feet he'll drop another piece of his heart here.

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The glow of the computer screen illuminates Mark's face. He's staring at it intently, studying the elements in the photographs he's taken at the ice rink. Naturally he's taken hundreds of shots, and for once Romy isn't the one contained in most of the them but the little wobbling first-time skater. Still, Romy's photos are the ones he's always going back to.

The clicking of his mouse and the radio in the room are the only sounds.

You know I love Christmas

I always will

My mind's made up

The way that I feel

He hears a knock at the door, a short few raps made by knuckles. It is nighttime but not entirely too late for visitors. Plus, most of those who know where Mark lives know he's generous and thus his figurative and physical door is usually always open.

There's no beginning

There'll be no end

'Cause on Christmas

You can depen-

He slaps the radio off and pushes himself away from the computer, taking the short walk to unbolt the door and pull it open. The showcase is drawing closer and he's half anticipating a late delivery of a much needed canvas.

But it's Romy, her eyes glossy, face somewhere between pale and flushed as she takes a series of breaths, as though her own emotions are slipping between sides and her body is becoming chameleon-like to their effects.

He understands that feeling all too well.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He knows what this means. He leans into the door, experiencing a sense of dread.

Well, it's happened. And he's happy that it has, but not happy about this. She's come here to confront him.

Mark pulls himself up and opens the door wider, staring down and avoiding her eyes, they landing on the suede brown boots on her feet, and she slips past him indoors. He closes the door, the cold brush of air gone to the warmth of the studio, and Mark is still leaning on it for support. When he turns Romy is still staring daggers at him.

"Well?" she insists sharply, her accent always thicker when she gets worked up. Mark sighs and continues to stare downward, finding it very hard to look at her like this, and while harboring so such intense and unpleasant emotion toward him.

"It wasn't my secret to tell."

She stares at him blankly. "You didn't think it was important?"

"Of course it was important!" he raises his voice at her. The fight they had narrowly avoided in the theater lobby they are now colliding with. He could have told her how long he'd been acting on her behalf and fighting for her. How he begged Diego to tell her…but he doesn't. He isn't against Diego and doesn't want to pin it like he is; that he's the bad guy and Mark is the good.

He has to defend Romy and Diego both. To defend all of them but himself.

And he has to remind himself what he's fighting for when none of this is even rightfully his fight. But in the center he is.

"You knew how I felt! Why didn't you say something at the rink, when I told you how I felt?"

"Because, Romy, I thought you were talking about me!"

His voice is so loud that it echoes within each of them, to the core, in the shocked silence that immediately follows. His voice goes down several octaves and the rest comes out in a blurry utterance nearly beyond his control. "I was just hoping...that...you would be mine."

And there it is, that. There it is, after all this time. He feels aghast at himself, there's a pit in his stomach and the tips of his fingers are trembling. He turns away from her, his face ablaze, and leans on the side of a desk closet to him. She had come here to talk about Diego and attack Mark for keeping a secret. That's what she thought were her troubles, a dying lover and a disloyal friend, and now Mark had just added a thousand more burdens to her senses, and was mad at himself for adding this gravity on to her on top of everything else. Above his bent back and dropped head is a framed quote Romy had given him as a gift one Christmas past. " _On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur." -Antoine de Saint-Exupery_

 _We see well only with the heart._

He doesn't know how much time passes. Seconds, minutes, years. It feels like forever. Like he's standing on jagged rocks and every second is more unbearable than the last and he feels himself about to collapse. Time itself means nothing. He's in a whirlwind. An illusion. A bad dream. Drowning on an endless current that would never abide.

"Mark, you mean so much-"

"No, don't. Don't do that," Mark says, cutting off Romy's fragile murmurs. "I didn't want this to happen, where everything is different between us and never goes back to the way it used to be, and they'll always be this…this _thing_ following us around..."

She's staring at his back because he won't look at her, his spine nearly etched out from the coarse angle his back is bent into.

"H-how long have you felt..." she starts to ask, and then stops herself, as if she knows it's not something she really truly wants to know, that the information will pose another onslaught of trauma to her thoughts and emotions.

Finally he turns to look at her. He sees her eyes are more vibrant now than ever while lined with even more puffy redness, little pools of moisture collecting under the curve of them. "I used to feel that way, Romy, but not now. Now that I see how you love him."

It's a near lie, but anything to get them out of this, away from what could be, and her back with Diego as soon as possible.

"Don't think about this, or me, alright?"

"I always think about you Mark." Her voice is tiny and she's weeping quietly.

"You know what I mean. Spend your time with him. Be with him. He's my best friend, I want to know he has you." He feels a catch in his throat and has to stop and do everything he can to push it down. Its part hurt of letting Romy go, and knowing his friend will be gone soon. A grief over them both, and urge of compassion, not wanting Diego to be alone as he grows weaker, sicker, and closer to the end. The woman Diego loves should be there by his side.

Romy nods, understanding, fresh tears now on her face. She moves closer, all the way, until Mark isn't sure what she's doing until her arms are around him and they are hugging tight. He dips his nose into her yellow hair. He's successful in holding back his tears by sorely strangling them in his throat, only one little stay drop of moisture is seeped up by a lock of her tresses.

She'll take it with her when she goes.

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Mark stands in the hallway outside Diego's place on a typical evening. The two often get together to watch the games. They used to hang out regularly at a pub, but since Diego has gotten sicker, and the coughing more prominent, he hasn't preferred to be out in public much. Diego also has a special television that allows him to keep up with his favorite sports teams back in the States. No matter what time of year or in what country there's always a game to watch.

Mark is hesitant on going, even considering an excuse though he knows that's not an option. Diego doesn't have the luxury of excuses, his time is numbered. Everyone's is, but this man has an express pass.

Having a friend who's dying is an education in clarity and perspective. You watch your tongue when you speak and choose your words, and tense, carefully.

When the door is open and Mark is ushered in he tries not to be too obvious about the fact that he's waiting to hear Romy's voice and glancing around corners they pass to see if another figure is in the flat. He imagines the blow of seeing a bra or panties draped across a chair.

He has no clue if she's talked to Diego about what happened at his studio, or if Diego's asking him here to land a fist against his face. So far he hasn't seemed like he's mad, but Mark is on his toes, and Diego _is_ aware.

"She ain't here."

Mark freezes, the color washing from his face.

"Romy," Diego clarifies, as if he has to. "You can relax."

Why would Mark have to relax? What does he think? What does he know?

Diego goes to the fridge and opens the door while Mark tries to act like he's still comfortable here, sitting himself near the couch. The pre-game is on the tv, images of the field and commentators trading screen time. Diego's flat is minimal, barely decorated, he only having time and energy and space for things that are absolutely necessary. Too much tends to unnerve him. Mark doesn't see any obvious signs or influences from Romy.

"Which one you want?" Diego calls from kitchen, raising up two bottles of beer. Mark picks the one on the left and Diego joins him in the sitting room.

They talk a little about Mark's show, how he's preparing, but Diego isn't exactly an artsy kind of guy. But he still supports him. They talk about the game for a time, watching and commenting until a break. They're being bombarded by all kinds of cheerful holiday advertising and promises, words like "lifetime" and "love" mixed with "before time runs out" and "new beginnings" thrown about to the audience in the silent room as though they weren't powerful as bullets.

Diego takes a gulp of his beer. "I told her, you know," comes his gruff proclamation. Mark turns his head slightly, eying the side of Diego's face as he gazes at the TV screen. Perhaps Romy hadn't told him after all. She was keeping his- _their_ -secret. He would follow with the assumption.

"And?"

Diego shrugs. "She was upset. Cried. Even ran out for a bit, but..."

Mark is silent. Waiting. He thinks he can hear his heartbeat between his ears. "She came back."

Diego turns to look at him. He nods.

"She's not the type to just, run away. She's..." he doesn't know what to say, what he wants to say or should say, staring down at the floor with his beer in his hand.

"I know," Diego then says quietly. "And I know you've got feelings for her." Mark looks over at him to gauge the expression, ponding if this was all a buildup, and the fist was indeed coming, but Diego's emotion is steady and his body is relaxed, or as relaxed as it can be considering. There isn't any animosity or anger in the words. "I knew it when I asked you, first time I saw her."

"I'm not mad. It...it is what it is."

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." Mark faces him fully in his seat. "She doesn't want me. She never did. I'm okay with that. I wasn't, in the past, but now...you're the one she loves."

The L word. If there's something along with art Diego doesn't dwell on too much or really understand its love. It's not that he has a cold heart or is incapable of it himself, but that he doesn't know what to do with it, and is afraid of what it even means, especially in the face of his own demise. "She really does love you."

Diego looks down as though he's done talking and the conversation might be over, but he's just thinking. The game has all been forgotten, and when the men's eyes land on the screen they're not really seeing it anymore.

Thinking, for a time, that that might be the end of it, Mark then hears Diego's voice.

"If it makes you feel any better I won't have her forever."

Mark doesn't know if he's joking or not. Death has a way of making one's humor dry and biting. But Mark knows Diego will forever have Romy's heart, much in the same way and principals that Romy will always have his. Of this he has no doubt.

"Yeah you will."

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When they arrive Diego is dressed in black, tired but tidy, and gone to the effort of putting on his dressier shirt. Romy doesn't care that Mark is chatting in the middle of a group of others, wine glass in hand, when she sneaks up behind and wraps her arms around him. Mark pats her hand.

"Ils sont merveilleux," she says into his ear.

The only French he's ever learned has been from Romy, and certain phrases and words he knows how to put together well enough. Mark turns to see her, she looking luminous as ever. She's all smiles and she's cut her hair. "Thank you."

He wants to come off like he's doing just fine, successful and happy and moving on, but he still thinks about her often. And he still has feelings, the ones he's repressing like it's a full time job, because it is. He can ignore it all he wants but it's still there.

The act of not loving someone is really just denial.

Diego is standing several feet behind her with his hands in his pockets. Romy flits off to mingle and grab drinks, Mark making his way towards his friend. Diego's staring at a huge, full size wall photograph containing the backsides of various naked men wearing only red Santa hats.

"Never understood this shit you do," he comments.

Mark chuckles. "She does."

"Yeah well, she's somethin' else."

Mark takes a sip from his glass and eyes the room. It's a good turnout. There's food, drinks and music. People are talking, laughing and enjoying the artwork, but in Mark's mind there is only one significant masterpiece of worth in the whole place.

"Have you seen it?" he asks Diego. The man shakes his head. Mark takes him through the gallery, past the display walls and various collections and where a large empty area is being used as a dance floor. He stops in front of the pièce de résistance.

It's the picture of Romy from the ice rink giving her impish little grin.

Mark turns his head to see the Diego's reaction. It's reminiscent of the way he first set eyes on her in the bar. Diego says nothing but stares, looking with intense concentration, seemingly overwhelmed by the beauty of it, huge and blown up, and probably that he was with that woman in the picture. In love with her and she in love with him. And Mark thinks that maybe Diego is memorizing it, knowing that vision, that beauty and that woman won't be with him much longer…and he wants to keep it with him forever. If he can take something with him when he goes, this imprint wouldn't be a bad one.

The title under the photo reads _Amour, à Noël._

 _Love, at Christmas._

The rest of the time they spend at the gallery Romy dotes on Diego. She makes sure he has drinks, that he's comfortable, whispers things to him, holds his hand. Mark tries to make small talk and network with nearly everyone in the building. There are artists, models and colleagues present. The beautiful people. He supposes some of them are his friends, but in a loose, insincere way. Only a handful of them are worth a damn on the inside.

When Mark makes one of his rounds he sees the couple together sitting atop the galley's silver folding chairs, Romy's arm around Diego's shoulders. As she sees him join them Romy stands and gives him a bright smile. "Let's dance."

Mark feels his face go pale and gulps. He looks down at Diego.

The roles have been reversed; he is now the one asking permission for the woman's hand.

Diego shrugs and nods agreeably, as if it's the most innocent request in the world. Mark hasn't noticed until now how very exhausted the other man looks, as though this simple outing to the gallery has drained him substantially. He might want someone to dance with Romy since he's unable, or maybe Romy genuinely wants to dace with a friend…with him.

With obvious fear Mark follows Romy to the floor where others are dancing, she leading the way and the whole exchange and act entirely. Thus, she's first to slip into his arms, knowing how cautious he is of her. He always has been, but even more so now, and will never touch her while Diego is in the same room.

To an extent he is afraid of her. He thinks that he should have as little contact with her as possible to get his head right, and this is doing exactly what he shouldn't, what _she_ shouldn't. He expects things to be awkward or weird, was anticipating it, but they aren't. She is kind and genuine, and giving him all the things he asked for- that they remain as they always had been, and not allow some large anomaly to forever cloud their relationship.

Behind his booth the DJ replaces one Christmas song for another. Romy pus her hand on his shoulder, their other palms cupped together and upright to the side. His other arm is around her back. Slowly they move back and forth, here and there. He doesn't really know how to dance, or even what he's doing at all. He lets Romy place him like a marionette and just moves his feet and follows her for as long as she wants, as long as whatever he is doing is enough for her.

They don't talk. They don't have to.

At another time he might have taken this innocent act as something else, something more than it is, and spend the rest of his days and nights contemplating and overthinking it. Now, they both know better. Now it does mean more to him in different way. This is more solid and more meaningful than it could have ever been in the disillusioned past.

Once again as in olden days

Happy golden days of yore

Faithful friends who are dear to us

Will be near to us, once more

From over Romy's shoulder Mark can still see Diego comfortably resting back in his chair. That's when it begins.

It starts with a single cough, then another. Romy and Mark are used to it, Romy more so, but when the sound of it becomes constant and Diego looks like he's struggling to keep himself from making a scene Mark feels the slight tensity and alertness in her body. The woman appears to subtly arch an ear toward the back of the room.

For several moments all is calm again. The song continues playing and they continue swaying. Mark is thinking about the duration of the song and how much longer he'll get to have her in his arms. It's nice that they can be like this, that they may be able to be like this in the future. He still has work to do.

Someday soon we all will be together

If the fates allow

Behind them Diego coughs.

It's louder this time, and that's when Mark sees the spray that coats the hand Diego has been hacking into, a few glossy red drops coming to splatter on the floor. Mark stops in place. Frightened, Romy immediately turns to see what Mark is looking at and notices the condition of Diego. She runs from his arms and into the others. Mark isn't far behind. Without causing a display Diego is brought to a bathroom, and soon after is then slipped out of the gallery entirely.

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It's almost Christmas and the world is on edge. Nowhere is this more noticeable than a shopping mall or airport, and Diego has called upon him to meet in one of those locations. He detested the places even before he was sick, so it's even more a rarity now that he would want to be in such a place at this time of year.

He catches the scent of cinnamon and spices, equally sharp and warm, the place probably pumping it through the air vents like bottled Christmas cheer. People with large bags are swarming around them, red bows adorn everything and overhead a boy band is now playing a rendition of a never ending tune. Life is moving so fast and here he is, with this somber man, whose mortality is in such contrast to the lively atmosphere.

Mark is shocked where he now finds himself to be- a jewelry counter, picking out rings, with a pale and hollowed eyed Diego. The man doesn't look well. He looks noticeably worse than just days ago at the gallery.

"Ain't what ya think. Ain't got time for none of that, but, it's something. She'll have it after I'm gone. Remember me, maybe."

Mark looks at him incredulously. His mouth is dry. "You think she'll need reminding?"

He's known of Diego's dying for awhile. Before anyone else. And yet, he's never been faced with it, not like this, not like now.

"I'm leavin' her everything. What money I got left, the apartment…I want to know she'll be taken care of, and that you'll take care of her after I'm gone."

Diego's gaze is boring into him. He's never been looked at by Diego like this either.

No matter what Mark has thought in the past about putting all manner of emotional and physical distance between he and Romy, Diego is now asking him not to leave her, to stay and be a part of her life. It's like his fate is being set out for him, and though none of them know what the future holds, Diego wants them to at least have each other. If there's any doubt in his mind, of which there is some, Mark will need to learn to understand, train, control, alter or ignore whatever it is.

Mark swallows a lump of sand. "Of course." He's still merely trying to take it all in, and it's a lot.

Diego goes on to ask his opinion about rings, but Mark finds it hard to concentrate on anything but the overwhelming sadness of the situation. He stares at his friend, seeing in his eyes all the emotions and feelings he doesn't want to say, and gets visions of what could have been, what Diego and Romy's future could have been like.

What must it feel like for Diego himself to know what he's losing, and have the strength and fortitude to call upon another man, who knows his feelings, to somewhat step into his place?

The pain cuts deep. The gesture of this is so powerful that Mark's own feelings in all of this seem so minuscule. He's willing to bear whatever discomfort and heartache his feelings for Romy bring, knowing that _this_ here is the real tragedy. His pain is nothing in the face of this, and he feels selfish.

It's not fair. Why are his friends, who are in love and on the brink of something that could be monumental, about to be delivered heartache and death? Why does he get to live on with Romy, and she with him, when Diego doesn't?

You gave your presents to me

And I gave mine to you

Diego turns his head to cough into a tissue. When he comes back around Mark sees him stuff the soggy red cloth into his pocket. Diego meets his wearied eyes, sees the things he'll never ask. "I don't know how much time I got."

Soon they are outside in the carpark, walking toward Diego's car, who now has a tiny box with a bow nestled within his pocket. Mark stands a distance away in the chill of the night. Diego hesitates at the door.

"There's something else."

It looks like he's building himself up to say whatever it is. Mark waits. "When it happens...I, don't want you to be there." Mark is silent but keeps looking. "Don't want anyone to be there, really. But...I don't want you to see me like that."

Mark knows about Diego's past, some of the things he's seen, the slaughter and trauma of war, and the personal tragedy of watching family members' demise. He knows his feelings, how he doesn't want Mark to witness that and keep it with him the rest of this life, and for Diego's own personal reasons too. There's not much Mark can reply, knowing it isn't his call. He may want to see Diego to speak with him, be with him and get closure- but that's for _him_ , not Diego.

The funeral and other displays are for the living, not the dead, and Mark already knows there will be no fanfare at his request. The circumstances of his death is the one thing Diego can control. There's no question that Mark won't respect them.

"You sure?" His breath comes out with a puff of fog.

Diego nods but slowly and with hesitation, as though he's still thinking about it, but knows ultimately what he has to do for himself. He looks away, the lights of the shopping mall dazzling in the darkness of the night. "I called you here..." He stops.

"To say goodbye," Mark finishes.

Diego now looks back over at him.

This blow has nothing to do with Romy or unrequited love, but it feels the same. The surge ascends the same, overwhelms the core then reaches out to all the limbs and digits, tingling like an electric shock. He steps forward and the men embrace.

The most significant moments of our lives do not often happen on the top of a mountain or the banks of an exotic ocean. Often they happen on unassuming weekdays, when we've just run out of jam, in the carpark of a shopping mall.

And he's not aware of it, and it won't be visible in the morning or with any naked eye, but a part of himself slips out and ingrains itself on the pavement.

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Christmas Eve Mark spends at the pub, downing beer and watching a music video on the box. There's a man in a suit and gray hair, girls with red lips in dirty Santa outfits swaying around him and the fabricated snow fall. Billy Mack's just topped the charts and he and everyone else in the bar is subjected to hearing the song again, as though they haven't crossed paths with it a hundred times this month.

I feel it in my fingers

I feel it in my toes

"Gobby bastard," mutters the overweight man next to him, taking a swig of his beer, bitterly eying the television screen. He's known to the locals around this place as Joe.

"That sounds bitter," Mark observes from his seat.

"You believe I used to know 'im?" he says, and Mark raises an eye brow. "My right best mate he was, for a time."

Mark struggles not to make a face. He's not completely believing this is true but he's going with it anyway. At least he's not the only one out alone, getting drunk on Christmas Eve in some mediocre bar. "Yeah? So what happened, then?"

"Life, you know."

"Did you really know Billy Mack?" a small voice interrupts.

Both men look over to see a young boy, nearly being eat up by a thick jacket with fur on the rim, eyes wide like he were staring at the star himself.

"You knew Billy Mack?" he repeats.

"Ain't you a little young to be in here?" Joe asks.

"I'm with my dad," the boy explains. "Can I have some water, please?" he then says to the barmaid, an ebony skinned woman with long braids. She observes him and his odd stance there but turns to pour him a glass. The boy watches the television, then heartily gulps down the drink when its placed in front of him.

"Don't punch it down all at once," the hearty man laughs when the boy cringes from the cold. "You nervous or somethin'? Been naughty, eh. Afraid Father Christmas won't pay a visit tonight?"

The boy hesitates but it's clear he has something to say. The men are quiet, waiting.

"We stopped in to get directions." He nods toward a man at other side of the bar in a long coat, the utter epitome of gentility and friendless as he speaks to the barmaid and another staffer behind the counter. "We're going to a school mates house. I'm going to profess my love to her."

Their jaws drop with surprise and both men stare. "No shit."

Mark slaps Joe in the arm at the curse. Then again, this seems like a very grown up boy who is used to hearing grown up words.

"Good luck, ole chap," he remarks, shaking his head at all the known horror of it and takes a gulp for his sake and the boys.

Joe agrees. "Plenty reason to be nervous, alright."

"Can you help me? With something to say?"

Joe chuckles an honest laugh. "You're asking the wrong bloke."

The boy looks to Mark.

"You haven't thought that part out yet?" But how can he judge, when he never had either, and when all preparation was usually useless the moment of the actual attempt. "Well don't say something completely idiotic, like..."

"Like what?"

"Like, my wasted heart will love you..."

His arms over his chest, Joe considers the words. "That don't sound too bad."

The boy's eyes light up. "Yeah...that's rather good."

"No. No it's not."

"And what else?"

"What else?" he repeats in disbelief.

"Yeah. Go on. Hurry, my dad's about done."

Mark scoffs and blows a puff of air out of his mouth. "I don't know. Tell her she's perfect or something."

The kid nods, eventually smiles, nervous but like he's got a new pep in his step. "Thank you."

"Sam!" a voice calls out, and a man with a kind smile waves at the boy to come.

He runs off, then pauses to turn back. "Merry Christmas!"

Mark gives a small smile and responds by gently raising his glass. The two men are alone again.

"Cute kid," Joe says. "I wish him luck."

Mark drowns the last of his bottle. "It's hard to be in love."

"It sure is."

On TV they announce a bash is being held for the holder of the top of the music chart at a swanky hotel downtown. The evening news then begins, the frigid weather the topic of discussion. At Mark's side Joe ultimately begins to gather his things.

"Where you off too?"

Thoughtfully, after draping a coat across his arm Joe says, "Hopefully, to see an old friend."

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It's Christmas Day, and he doesn't want to call her.

It's precious time the two of them have left and Mark doesn't want to interrupt.

If their relationship is a triangle, he knows he's the point that comes last.

But early afternoon comes and the phone does ring.

"Hello?"

"Mark?"

"Yes? Hi. Hello...Merry Christmas." He's anxious and fidgety, happy to get a call from her but trying not to sound like he's been waiting for it for days. But there's also a pause on her end, and he knows her voice and knows it's not where it's supposed to be on a call such as this. "What's wrong?"

"Diego's been in the hospital."

Mark sits up, reaching for his shoes. "Where are you? Should I come?"

"No, no," she says gently. "He..." He's not sure if he hears a gasp in her voice or if its static on the line, but she tries again. "He says he wants to be at home. So-" She stifles a shudder he wouldn't have recognized had he not known her so well. "I'm keeping him home."

Mark knows what this means. His body goes chill and he recalls the conversation he had with Diego at the shopping mall. He has more visions and they are all horrific, but they aren't real, and he realizes then just what Diego really has spared him, and what his mind will go on to plague him with forever.

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For several days he hears nothing.

He takes on the task of cleaning up his studio, no time like New Year's Eve to attempt organization and optimism for the months ahead. Outside, singers are descending upon the neighborhood.

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

and old lang syne?

A knock interrupts the chorus.

He sighs, half debating on ignoring them, then realizes all his lights are on and it's a small hindrance on an otherwise uneventful night. He dips his hand into the change dish on his counter and grabs some spare coins on his way to the door.

When he opens it and sees Romy, her eyes stained a deep red and crying, he knows Diego is gone.

The coins drop from his hand and make pinging noises on the ground neither of them hear. For a brief moment her ring catches a light and beams into his eyes, it glittering among the backdrop of the night sky, easily mistaken as one of the brilliant fakes slowly floating around her. She latches on to him, and he to her, and together they cry.

We two have run about the slopes,

and picked the daisies fine;

But we've wandered many a weary foot,

since auld lang syne

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We two have paddled in the stream,

from morning sun till dine;

But seas between us broad have roared

since auld lang syne


End file.
